Pages

Sunday, March 24, 2013

“You come here in 1995 and you could shack up, and live
life, and that was that. But now? New York—it's f*cking Disney World.”

I was sitting on a Queens-bound N train, trying desperately
to read my magazine. But a man, who looked like Jared Leto from Fight Club, and
a woman who sounded like a mobster’s wife from the 1930’s, were far too
entertaining… and loud.

“The whole city can go f*ck itself!” she chimed in with her squeaky,
character voice. They both sounded like disgruntled actors, ready for a change.

“I just hate America's mentality. And New York's mentality?
No, it's all goal-orientated. Everyone’s hung up on something. But then where
is the community?” said Fight Club Wannabe.

Doll Face bobbed her blonde head up and down in agreement. “Yeah,
yeah,” she said. I couldn’t help but think her accent was a fake, unless maybe
she’d grown up in New Jersey. No one moves to New York City and suddenly sounds
like a character from 42nd
Street.

“When is it enough?” Doll Face continued. “I keep thinking I'm
going to make it—what's making it? What is that?” Then more quietly, she asks, “After years of the same shit, I
think, ‘Is this it?’” Her question sounded like a sad, defeated statement,
weighing down the air around us.

I’ve always told myself the moment I start to hate New York
more than I love it, the time to leave this both exasperating and enchanting
city will have presented itself. You see, NYC will save you from the horrors of
boredom and normalcy. You’ll achieve more, do much, and see it all—but such
frantic liberation from the dreaded “ordinary” comes at a price.

New York City will break you; she’ll beat you to the ground,
eat you alive, and then spit up some redesigned version of your former being. This
will happen. It is inevitable. You will lose yourself, for better or
worse, for a moment or a lifetime. And yet, how you survive is sometimes based on what you were
fighting for in the beginning, when you first stepped foot in Manhattan. Do we remember what that was?

I’m not sure these subway riders did.

“I could leave this damn city and have a half-decent life
somewhere else,” the brilliantly blonde man continued. It was obvious something
had pushed him over the edge today. His eyes were angry and a sneer lined his
lips, making him appear cruel.

“You can't just keep raising prices on everything and not
raise salaries. We can't live,” Fight Club said in exasperation. By now, I was
no longer attempting to read my magazine and, instead, waiting for them to
confirm my assumptions.

“There’s no money is Broadway!” they both said in unison, as
though it was their morning mantra.

Assumptions confirmed.

“I feel guilty for eating. I SHOULDN'T feel guilty for
eating... But I do because I'm over budget,” he continued. “I'm always over
budget and I don't know how to save. How did we make it when we first got
here!?”

I could ask myself that same question. But the days of
plastic bag suitcases, and surviving off eggs in the sticky, summertime heat are
maybe still memories in the making.

“I’ve just had enough.” Ironically, our train arrived at the
Broadway stop in Astoria, Queens. I wondered if this sign mocked them.

“Because of a signal malfunction at the Astoria-Ditmars
stop, this train has been instructed to wait here. More details to come momentarily.”

“Damnit! Are you kidding me, New York?!” Fight Club Wannabe
shouted in vain. The city probably didn’t hear him, but he shouted anyway. “This
is what I’m talking about. I can’t take this! I can’t TAKE THIS,” he said.

What he really meant (and what we were all thinking) was, “There
is nothing worse than knowing your complete lack of power.”

“Let’s catch a cab,” he said to ever-agreeable Doll Face.
They stormed off the train with a wave of angry riders, and I followed half-intrigued, half-restless.

We were down the first set of stairs when the conductor’s
voice reappeared, louder than before. “Wait a minute! Get back on this train!”
he said in a (genuine) New York accent. “It’s a miracle! They fixed the
problem!” he continued, with more enthusiasm than I’ve ever heard from a subway
conductor.

Now, quite suddenly, something about life had become amusing
to Fight Club and Doll Face. They started laughing as they ran back up the
stairs, racing each other and sliding into the first subway car.

They laughed, and laughed, until there was no sound, and
they were doubled over in joyful pain. I ran past their tear-streaked faces and
sprinted to the next car down, wondering if, maybe, they still had some small
shred of love left for this city.

Because New York can be quite a redemptive little witch, when
she wants to be. But most importantly:

Saturday, March 16, 2013

I can hop around and rave at concerts, or mingle at some
seedy club—but let’s be clear: I don’t know actual steps, and while
occasionally I have rhythm, the lack of knowledge about professional dancing
leaves me rigid and confused when I’m reluctantly pulled onto any dance floor.

(You’d think after 22 weddings and middle school cotillion,
I could handle myself more gracefully. Alas…)

So please imagine my insecurity as I walked toward a
swing dancing club in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. The weather was moderate, but an angry wind made the air feel more like impending
winter than spring. Still, I sat outside wrapped in my red coat for a lingering
moment, looking the swanky joint up and down.

“Urgh.” A small twinge of discomfort floated around my
stomach.

But as soon as those butterflies appeared, I knew not dancing was no longer an option.
I’ve learned over the years how to read that unsettling feeling; certain anxieties must simply become the next challenge or adventure.

Besides, who doesn’t grow tired of the same bars and
repetitive evenings? With this thought, I walked inside.

Ten or 12 friends were already circled up, learning how to
“rock step” in time to a big band beat. The room was full of nervous faces,
excited feet, and tiny tables illuminated with tea candles. Wine colored walls
and a wooden dance floor gave the club an antique touch. The band was tuning on stage as our
teacher counted out movements…

Whoops.What did he say? I should've been paying better attention, but my
mind was taking in details. Thank goodness Kristin, an avid swing dancer and friend,
could give me a private lesson.

“Always rock step with your right foot. It’s like the period
of a sentence; it’s always the same,” she said, moving back on her heel with
ease. I appreciated the grammar metaphor.

After mastering this very
simple step, I rewarded myself with a glass of wine. But standing on the
sidelines is dangerous at a swing club: Well-practiced dancers are always
looking for partners.

“May I dance with you?” a man asked, offering his hand.

“Oh. Um, yes…” I heard myself mutter.

Simultaneously, my mind was whispering something along

the
lines of, “Bad [bleeping] move Brit.”

“But I actually can’t dance!” I exclaimed with true fear. He turned me in a perfectly executed twirl, and then
another. “Sure you can,” he replied.

“No, really,” I said, suddenly unable to remember anything
about the dumb “rock step.” But my partner just smiled. He twirled me again,
and I wondered if my dress might be revealing a bit too much?

“Okay, well… uh, I’m just following you then,” I said
with a little shrug.

And may I just say… I think it was the best dance of my
life. Spin, spin, rock, dip; this guy
could truly dance! I became something like to a pile of spaghetti wearing a
dress, and stuck closely to his every move. When we ended in a dip so low my hair touched the floor, I
laughed in relief.

After both feet were back on the ground, I promptly hugged
Best Dancer Ever (which may or may not be kosher) and made him promise to dance
with all my friends. He gladly accepted the challenge, whisking away one girl after another.

As I sat there in the dim lighting, watching the room
twist to and fro, I remembered something important: How wonderful it does, in
fact, feel to let New York City take lead, and occasionally choreograph
life.

About the Blog

Two years ago, I made my way to New York City. Currently I'm working at The Huffington Post, writing for their Tech & Social Media vertical. This blog will chronicle my adventures for friends, family, & anyone else who happens by.

WHY the WHY?

"You must understand the whole of life, not just one little part of it. That is why you must read, that is why you must look at the skies, that is why you must sing and dance, and write poems and suffer and understand, for all that is life."